Chapter 6 - The Meadow
Edward
The scent of her blood is reminiscent of a field of freesia, aromatic and pure, with the barest hint of strawberry. It is also far more sweet than any flower that has ever bloomed. And, unbelievably appetizing. Carlisle said her blood sings to me, like the Siren's song of ancient myth. He is right. The aroma has a way of overwhelming my senses, blocking out the world around me and producing a thirst I never knew existed. But her blood may call for my attention all it wants. I refuse to give in to the temptation. A mere teenage girl will not be the cause of my downfall.
The first few hours I spent attempting to adapt to the girl's scent were hell on earth. High atop a mountain, I sat with a plastic bag tucked between my legs and descended straight into madness. I was little better than a demon at times, my previously calm and disciplined mannerisms gone without a trace. However, not for a moment did my family leave my side. Carlisle had the unenviable task of holding me back whenever my cravings became too powerful to resist. Esme continuously spoke her encouragement into my ear, subtly reminding me that I was better than the monster who raged inside of me. She was so convincing that I almost believed her.
Late Monday night was when we began to notice a change. In spite of the intense burning in my throat, my ability to carry on coherent conversations returned. By midday on Tuesday, I felt confident enough that I could go back to Forks without making a detour to the girl's house. Although the scent continued to strangle my throat, I found I could live with the discomfort.
At last, the three of us left the mountain. We ran through miles of wilderness until we reached the steps of our new home. It lies far outside of the Forks city limits and offers all the privacy we could want. Esme is the one responsible for remodeling the place. The interior is being painted in a cream color, one which matches the wall to wall carpeting precisely. To her delight, the new living room furniture she ordered arrived over the weekend. The upholstery of the couches and chairs are in a glossy chintz, with bundles of printed roses dotted across the fabric. Esme said it will be like bringing the comfort of the garden inside of the house. Perhaps she has a valid point. But, I am eternally grateful for insisting that the furniture of my bedroom be chintz-free. There is only so much flowery femininity that a man can take.
We tried to feign normalcy once we entered the house. Carlisle and Esme went about their business, such as performing household chores and pretending they were not keeping close tabs on me. Since I had taken up enough of their time, I made myself useful by staying out of their way. I climbed to the third floor and banished myself to the confines of my bedroom.
The first thing I did upon arriving was yank out the Ziploc bag from my pocket. I tossed it on top of a side table and backed away several feet. My eyes remained glued to the bag. It looked innocuous in the muted light of my bedroom. How could a white bra folded into a thin plastic baggie cause this amount of trouble? It was absurd that an inanimate object could hold so much power.
Just like it was absurd that a high school girl could block her thoughts from me.
Slightly irritated, I strode back to the table and held the bag in the palm of my hand. The key to solving the mystery of the girl's silent mind lay in my ability to get close enough to observe her. I would not always have the luxury of having my family nearby to keep me from doing anything I would later regret. Regardless, I did not want to become overly dependant upon them anyway. It was best if I learned how to control myself without their assistance. I would much rather face my demons and defeat them on my own.
My fingers moved to the top of the bag and gently pulled the plastic apart.
Pandora's box had been reopened.
The girl's scent burst out and quickly filled the room. I shut my eyes and gritted my teeth. It was plain to see that I had yet to fully desensitize myself to its allure. Only an hour had passed since I last inhaled it, yet here I was again fighting to rein in my impulses. I realized then what that meant for me. In order to build up a tolerance to the girl's scent, I would need to expose myself to the contents of the bag almost constantly. This was not a pleasant discovery.
With the scent continuing to assault my senses, I left the bag opened on the side table and searched desperately for a distraction. The wall of windows overlooking the backyard beckoned my attention. I wandered up to the glass and gazed outside.
I stood rooted in that spot for the next twelve hours.
From the third floor of the house, I could see a world of green stretching out for many miles. Dozens of types of trees occupied the land, blankets of moss covering their scaly trunks. Some of those giant cedars and spruce had existed long before Carlisle's birth. Their presence comforted me. Living hundreds of years longer than their brethren did not make them freaks of nature. Instead, they were admired for their longevity. The forest before me had also withstood countless abuses, however it continued to thrive. Threats of forest fires had yet to bring down the towering giants, nor modern man's saw. As long as their roots were secure, they endured each and every storm that came their way.
Night gradually crept in. As the full moon hovered above, I made an oath to myself. I would be like the trees before me. I would not go down easily. No matter how difficult the task may be, I would endure it and succeed. There was no alternative.
And, most importantly, nothing would keep me from going back to school in the morning.
Dawn's light breaks into my bedroom, urging me to leave my vigil by the window. I enter my bathroom and disrobe. The shower washes me clean, ridding my body of the specks of mud and grime I acquired from being in the wilderness for twenty-two hours straight. Afterwards, I find a plain t-shirt and a pair of acid-washed jeans. As I dress, I speculate over what is in store for me in the hours to come. The girl and I share exactly one class together. Only one. That means an hour of hardship and struggle on my part. Surely I can survive that.
At least, I sincerely I hope so.
When I inform Esme and Carlisle of my plans to return to school this morning, they do not express any great surprise. They do, however, ask if I want them to stay close by the school in case I cannot control myself. I think for a moment before I shake my head no. If I am too weak-minded to fight the bloodlust today, there will be no way for them to come to the rescue in time. No doubt the monster will strike quickly if it gets its chance. Therefore, the girl's life lies with me and me alone. I do not want my family to feel responsible if I should fail.
The drive to Forks is tense, my fingers wrapped tightly around the steering wheel. I shove in ZZ Top into the car's tape deck and allow the screaming guitars to soothe my troubled mind. It lifts my spirits greatly - until I drive into the school parking lot. Much to my displeasure, the students of Forks have noticed my return.
"Ohmygod! How did Edward get out of the mental institution so fast? Do you think he broke out?" a girl with pink, plastic bracelets on both wrists asks from a dozen yards away.
The people huddled around her take turns peeking in my direction. Rory Parker makes it a priority to flash me an unmistakable glare. I suppose she has yet to forgive me for causing her to fall out of a chair in the lunchroom the other day.
"Nah. He didn't escape," she divulges, pausing momentarily to toss her curly red hair behind a shoulder. "I bet his adopted parents had him released. They were probably embarrassed when the news about Edward being a WEIRDO got spread all over town. Now it's damage control time."
"Wow. Do you think he's dangerous?"
Rory sneers and rolls her eyes. "No way, Crystal. I talked to him on Monday, remember? He almost put me to sleep he was so boring. If he's dangerous, don't you think he'd do something other than sit alone and stare at the brick wall in the cafeteria? Trust me, he's nothing but a big snore-fest."
A boy leaning against his '70s era vehicle frowns and shakes his head from side to side. "Well, I'm not gonna risk it. I'm pretty sure that dude's crazy. There's no way I'm ever sitting in front of him in third period again. What if he decides to set the back of my head on fire? That's how his first set of parents kicked the bucket."
Crystal's eyes flap open wide. "For real?"
"Yeah. Jenny Logan told me yesterday. Her sister's boyfriend's second cousin is the janitor down at the town newspaper's office building. He must hear about everything the reporters are investigating before it even hits the paper, so you know what he says gotta be true."
I cut off my car's engine and climb out, my face empty of expression. I contemplate leaving the Ziploc bag in the car, but I ultimately decide to keep it with me in case I need it later. I walk at a human pace and concentrate on what's important, which is making it inside of this school without stopping to murder anyone.
It's much harder than it sounds.
"Look. He's out of the car and headed this way," someone in Rory's little group of friends points out.
The boy leaning against his vehicle takes another glance at me. An idea crosses his mind. This is perfect, he thinks. He looks excitedly at the people around him. "Psst! Hey, I wanna try something. You guys be my backup while I talk to him. I'm kinda nervous doing it on my own."
Rory presses her lips together, holding back a laugh. "Aww. You're nervous? What are you planning to do? Ask him to the dance?"
The boy's eyebrows snap together. "Just shut up and act friendly for once. OK? I wanna prove a point." Rory and the other handful of children nod their assent.
Seconds later, I pass within a few feet of them. The boy gives me an outwardly friendly smile. "Hey. How's it going, Edward?" he calls out. "Love the Jag, man. What model is that? An XJS? Betcha it hauls ass."
I have no intention of shooting the breeze with that buffoon or acknowledging him in any way. So, I keep on walking. Through their minds, I see that he and the people around him are keeping a close eye on my whereabouts. Once I reach the school building and pass through its doors, they relax and regroup. The boy gives the people around him a superior look."See?" he gloats. "Told you there's something seriously wrong with that dude. Did you notice how he wouldn't say a word even when I was being nice? He's most definitely psycho. Ten bucks says he'll be on a Wanted poster within six months of graduation."
My teeth clench down, the force strong enough to puncture steel. If there is one thing I despise, it's someone who is two-faced. The fact that he chose to wear fluorescent orange parachute pants at 8 o'clock in the morning serves to intensify this hatred. Unless you are currently hunting in the wilderness, that hideous shade of orange should never be worn. Additionally, parachute pants create a swooshing sound whenever its wearer moves. It's beyond irritating. I suppose he wanted to wear something which would compliment his personality.
As I travel to my locker, I see that Forks appears to have an overabundance of two-faced morons today. Dozens of students talk amongst themselves about my return, murmuring in low voices of how scandalous it is that I am allowed back on campus after "what I did". Yet, some of those same individuals also wave in greeting and invite me over to chat. In return, I give them each a look which says without words how I feel.
I reach first period English and find a seat in the back of the classroom. For approximately two minutes, I am alone and fairly content. Then, a molecule of freesia floats to my nose. And then another. The scent overpowers the less appetizing aromas in the room. A blink of an eye later, a small figure bundled up in a thick sweater enters through the door.
My contented mood plummets straight into the blazing depths of hell. The silent-minded girl evidently takes first period English too. And, unfortunately for her, she smells infinitely better than the Ziploc bag stuffed inside of my jacket pocket.
I take immediate precautionary measures within moments of her arrival. My mouth clamps shut. My chest rises and falls but no longer draws in air. The situation I face is perilous. If I lose my self-control for even a fraction of a second and attack her, everyone in this room is doomed. Volturi law forbids leaving human witnesses to feeding frenzies.
I stare straight ahead, pinning my eyes on the words scrawled on the chalkboard. The risk is too great for me to pay the girl any mind. The monster would inevitably try to wrestle control away from me if I were to concentrate on her in any way. It may decide to attack with no prior notice. Or, the monster could choose to bide its time. After all, vampires have the reputation of luring helpless victims to some secluded spot and drinking from their necks. So, until I build a complete resistance to the call of her blood, I will not look at her. I not think of her. Nor will I breathe while in her presence. And if I see her in someone's thoughts, I will switch my focus elsewhere. For the foreseeable future, I will simply pretend she does not exist.
Mind over matter...
"Hi!" a girlish voice squeals into my ear, dragging me kicking and screaming from my frazzled thoughts. "I'm Mandy."
"And I'm Gina!" another girl chirps.
"And we just wanted to come over and say good morning to you!" Mandy cheers a bit too brightly for my present mood. The girls wait for me to respond in a similar, enthusiastic manner. That won't be happening. My head moves up and down to show that I heard them, but I dare not speak.
"We heard you haven't been feeling well," Gina pipes in. "But I think you look fine now. Like... really, really fine." The two girls burst into giggles at Gina's play of words. How "fine" came to be known as a compliment referring to one's attractiveness remains a mystery to me.
I continue to look straight ahead without cracking a smile. Freesia is in the air, thick and stifling. It's too dangerous to even open my mouth. Otherwise I would have already informed these girls that I want them to leave me the hell alone.
Mandy ignores my indifferent response and takes it upon herself to describe the fun she had the other night while at the beach. Then she goes on and on about everything else currently on her mind, her thoughts hopeful that she will find a subject matter which will get a reaction out of me. Her voice has an unpleasant quality to it, like that of an off-key kazoo. Listening to her pointless yacking is the equivalent of being subjected to water torture, each word she speaks being a drop of liquid landing directly upon my forehead. Though, I have to admit she does create a decent diversion. Her near constant chatter ferments my brain to such an extent that the silent-minded girl's aromatic presence nearby is slightly less overwhelming.
The girls wander off before the school bell rings, hissing their displeasure at my "moodiness" once they believe I am out of earshot. Our teacher makes his entrance moments later. He assigns the students a simple task - to read a certain short story by William Faulkner. I know every word by heart. Nevertheless, I read it again just to give myself something to do.
Once the teacher decides everyone has had enough time to finish reading, he begins drilling the students with questions. They are relatively easy if you paid attention to the story. However, Mr. Brown's ominous personality has many of the children shaking in their shoes. Based on what I hear from the their thoughts, being put under Mr. Brown's critical eye causes much anxiety and fingernail biting. He's all frowns and sharp, unencouraging words. I have found that when a teacher behaves in this way, nervousness oftentimes negatively affects a student's's ability to think and communicate. Mr. Brown is well aware of this problem, though he has no intention of softening his approach. It appears he enjoys watching them squirm. I suspect he harbors an antisocial disorder of some sort.
One of my classmates has the misfortune of falling asleep in the middle of class. Mr. Brown wakes the boy up and scolds him. After he extracts enough entertainment out of that situation, he surveys the room. Through his beady eyes, I hear him deliberating within himself on which student he should choose next. He soon stumbles across a girl with long hair, a pair of chocolate brown eyes, and a swan-like neck - its skin exposed and vulnerable.
Bella? Hmm... No, no. Too soon to ask her, Mr. Brown decides before flicking his attention to someone else.
The sight of that girl instantly puts me on edge. My hands ball up into fists underneath the desk. The girl with the nearly irresistible aroma has a name.
Bella.
It sounds innocent. Harmless even. Her name is at odds with the sweet-smelling blood which repeatedly tortures me.
Mr. Brown's eyes continue scouring the classroom. They eventually zero in on me. He thinks back to a conversation he had the morning before. Principal Lang had visited each of my teachers and spoke with them regarding the meeting he had with Carlisle on Monday afternoon. He informed them all that it had been an adverse reaction to a prescription which caused me to behave erratically in Chemistry class. If Mr. Brown's memories are accurate, the principal recommended that my teachers not apply too much pressure on me just yet. It was decided that allowing me time to readjust to my new environment would be best for now. The principal seemed genuinely concerned about making my return to school flow smoothly as possible. His compassion truly touches me. But my mood sours once Mr. Brown recalls how he himself immediately spread the news of my "anxiety disorder" and some of its details, completely ignoring Principal Lang's request to keep the information private. He only informed other teachers and staff, but that does not matter. There are eavesdroppers everywhere. It was all over the school by the end of the day.
The realization that a teacher could take such pleasure in distributing gossip concerning his pupils' mental health has me seeing red. If I were really a troubled teenager, his callous disregard for my privacy could have proved traumatizing to my well-being. My body language rapidly reflects my state of mind. Stiff posture, clenched jaw, and face purposely pointed downwards to conceal my rising outrage. Yet Mr. Brown interprets my body language differently.
Well, well, well. What do we have here? It appears that Forks' new lunatic is a little wary of being called upon today, Mr. Brown muses. A smirk slides up his weathered face. He'll wish he and his family had stayed in Boston once he sees how difficult it is to pass MY class. If Principal Lang thinks he needs to be babied, he should have been moved to Remedial English down the hall.
"Mr. Cullen," the teacher says with artificial kindness. "Why don't you try answering this one, please."
I am thankful that there is nothing currently in my hands, for surely I would have crushed anything within my grasp. That girl - Bella - sits only a few rows ahead. I am positive that her scent swirls all around me, waiting for its chance to draw the monster out of its den. I thought I had been doing well under the circumstances. As long as I did not inhale any air during the entirety of this class, I believed I could get through it without attacking anyone or running out of the room. Yet this man has put me on the spot to answer a question, unknowingly placing himself and everyone around him at risk. And for what purpose? To prove that I am not only mentally unsound, but also an uneducated fool.
For a few moments in time, my craving for blood gets pushed aside. Fiery anger takes its place. This teacher is no better than many of the students around me. A fitting answer to the teacher's question comes to me unannounced. I believe there's enough air stored in my lungs to get across what I want to say. So, without dwelling any further upon the possible consequences of my actions, I open my mouth to speak.
"I believe the narrator was hinting at the townspeople's insincerity," I say quietly. The softer I speak, the less air is required. "The townspeople did not truly pity Miss Emily. Years of jealousy over her great wealth had them rejoicing in her downfall. However, saying that you have found joy in someone else's misfortune isn't socially acceptable. The townspeople covered up their satisfaction by claiming they 'pitied' poor Miss Emily."
I stop for a moment and make a point of catching several individuals eyes. A couple of people who were in Rory's clique of friends in the parking lot. A few who snickered at my supposed mental health issues in the hallway. Each one of them receives a silent glare. But I save the best exclusively for Mr. Brown.
"They often feign their sympathy to your face, yet gossip mercilessly about you behind your back," I announce with slightly narrowed eyes. "It's a flaw in human character which often occurs in small towns."
Mr. Brown's heart begins thumping out of control. Perspiration dampens his forehead. He is caught in my furious gaze and there is no way to escape. His thoughts grow weak and scattered, too frightened to function properly. Once I believe he has suffered enough, I release him and revert back to normal. I dart my eyes back to the textbook on my desk and wipe my features clean.
What the hell was that? he wonders immediately afterwards, blinking his eyes as though awakening from a dream. He studies me, searching for signs of the ferocity he could have sworn he saw only moments before. He finds nothing but a seemingly quiet, introverted boy. Gradually, he decides that he was only imagining things. His pounding heartbeat and vivid imagination must be due to that third cup of coffee he drank this morning, he concludes.
I almost smile at that.
"Ah. Uh, yes. Very good, Edward," Mr. Brown coughs, covering up his unease. "That was a... fascinating way to put things. Thank you." Eager to forget the incident with me, he quickly moves on to someone else.
Once out of the spotlight, I close my eyes and berate myself. What I did was reckless. I could have run out of air, ingested that freesia scent, and lost the feeble hold I have on my self-control. Somehow I kept myself from inhaling during my little outburst, but it was a close call. I should have put my anger aside and not spoken. Or, at the very least, told the teacher that I couldn't answer his question. It would have been the smart thing to do. Although, I have to admit, the terrified look on Mr. Brown's face was satisfying to behold. It makes it more difficult to regret my actions.
For the remainder of English class, I make sure to keep my mouth firmly closed and lungs deflated. The bell rings at the end of the hour, the sound music to my ears. I flee out of the classroom as fast as I safely can. My second period class lies on the opposite side of the building. That's the direction I go, all the while hoping the girl doesn't make a surprise appearance along the route. Once I arrive at my destination, I take a chance and inhale to test the air quality. My body sags in relief. No freesia.
Throughout the rest of the morning, I keep my head down and my guard up. I try to focus on maintaining the illusion of being a normal student while also avoiding the minds of people who happen to be looking in the girl's direction. In this way, I get through the day.
When the lunch hour arrives, my worry returns. I know that she will be in that cafeteria. But my concern is unfounded. The hundreds of humans occupying the room put off such a strong odor that the girl's scent is undetectable. Finally, a stroke of luck for me.
Before the end of the hour, I remind myself that sixth period Chemistry comes next. I will be trapped in the same room with the girl for an entire hour. And it's been at least three since I last spent time with her scent. I need to reacquaint myself with it in case more trouble arises later.
I leave the noisy lunchroom and direct myself to the boy's restroom. An empty stall becomes my sanctuary. I latch the door shut so no one will disturb me. My hand pulls out the plastic bag from my jacket pocket. I pry it open. Freesia once again surrounds me. I breathe it all in, all the while suppressing a growl. But, I am faintly surprised to see that the burning effect isn't as harsh as it was last night. Maybe I am slowly building up a tolerance.
Aware that time is running out, I leave the bathroom and head to Chemistry. I'm prepared now. My breathing halts long before I step into the room. And, as soon as I pass through the classroom's doors, I am met with a certainty.
She is already here.
I sense her presence right away. Even though I have not seen her face or inhaled a molecule of air, I know she is in this room somewhere. I don't understand how I could know this information, only that I do. I presume it's due to a heightened awareness of my surroundings. Perhaps it is the instinct of a hunter near its prey. In any case, it's dangerous for me to dwell on it. I try to overlook the oddity as Ms. Saffle scurries to my side.
"Welcome back, Edward," she greets. "Are you feeling well?"
I nod my head to keep from speaking. I also make sure to avoid looking at the desk nearest the window. That is where the girl sat the other day, so it is likely she will be there now.
Ms. Saffle smiles at my response. "That's good. Do you need anything? Anything at all before we start class?"
I shake my head and grunt, hoping she will take it as a definite "no". She spends most of the remaining time we have left naming out things she can do to make me more comfortable, like asking if I'd rather sit closer to the door. I would like to tell the teacher that the only way I will be comfortable today is if she sends a certain person out of the room. I doubt that would go over well, however.
Ms. Saffle releases me from her clutches only after she extracts a promise that I will inform her if I have any trouble during class. I vigorously nod my head in agreement. She spent so much of her energies worrying over my welfare that she never noticed that I have yet to utter a word. How fortunate for me.
I escape to the back of the room and find a desk as far away from the girl as I can. To keep from accidentally reading the mind of someone who may be looking or interacting with her, I mostly focus on the goings on of people in other classrooms to keep myself busy. I see they're playing dodgeball in Gym. The class idiot threw a spitball in Human Anatomy class but was caught red-handed by the teacher mid-throw. In Home-Economics, someone's tuna casserole takes a tumble to the floor almost as soon as it comes out of the oven.
The distractions are a blessing.
During all that time, I don't dwell on the fragrance of freesia in the air, nor do I think of dark-eyed girls whose minds are locked up tighter than a bank vault. Additionally, Ms. Saffle does not pose any questions for me to answer during the lesson. For that, I am relieved. My relief triples once I am free to go to seventh period.
I made it through another class without creating a disturbance or harming the girl. I silently congratulate myself on that humble victory.
An hour later, I exit my last class and drop by my locker before heading home. Legions of dimwits hover nearby, their eyes glued to my every movement. Each person searches for an opportunity to swoop in and say at least a word or two. On and off throughout the day, numerous people went out of their way to do just that. Most of the students are wary of me, which is the correct way to react considering how much I scowled at everyone today. Yet my outward appearance and newly acquired bad boy reputation has somehow bolstered my status at this school. I suppose being known as the only person who suffers from multiple psychoses is seen as a novelty here. So, being seen with me - even for a passing moment - is considered a great social accomplishment.
My head shakes at their stupidity.
I am a vampire - not a local celebrity or prom king. These people willingly ignore the tiny voices inside their heads which scream of how dangerous I am. They cast caution to the wind just for the slim chance their own popularity may improve.
Like I said before, I am surrounded by dimwits.
As I close my locker, a flurry of thoughts not of my own invade my mind. Through several perspectives, I witness a man closely inspecting a car. My car. He's also in uniform and walks around with authority, head held high and face deadly serious. Several people mention a name.
Chief Swan.
Curious of what this man may be up to, I search for his inner voice within the hundreds I already hear. I find his mind fairly quickly, but I notice that it is unusually hazy. Words are few and far between. The Chief's thoughts appear mostly visual instead of verbal, like that of an animal instead of a person. It makes understanding him much more difficult.
I open the exit doors and walk outside to investigate. Pushing through a small group of children, I head down the sidewalk towards the student parking lot. Soon, my own eyes locate Chief Swan. He stands in front of the Jaguar's driver door, as though to block anyone from entering it. I keep my steps calm and unhurried as our gazes cross. His brown eyes immediately harden. One word on his mind slips through to me.
Cullen.
Hmm. Already ran my license plate, I presume.
When I am within a few feet of my car, Chief Swan asks for my full name. I give it without hesitation. He feigns ignorance.
"Cullen?" he repeats, forehead pinched in question. "So, you must be a part of that new family that moved to town."
"That is correct. And you are?"
"Chief Swan. This your car?"
Again, this is a question in which he already possesses the answer. I decide to play along. "Yes, it is."
"Hmm. That's very interesting, because I received a report this morning about a vehicle blaring music as it was entering the school grounds. Your car is the only one here which matches the description." Chief Swan stuffs a thumb into his duty belt and watches me for signs of guilt or fear. I show him neither. While it's true I was listening to some music in my car this morning, I would hardly refer to it as "blaring".
"I'm gonna have to ask you to allow me to search the vehicle," he adds.
I say nothing at first. A simple noise violation should not result in a search of one's private property. I peer into his eyes, waiting for his thoughts to fill in the details. I pick up very little information. There's nothing I can do except question him myself. "Why?"
The Chief explains how since he suspects a crime has been committed, it is his duty to search the vehicle. As he drones on about search warrants and the like, his inner thoughts make another slip. I see an image within his mind. He relives the moment where he peeked through my car's window and saw a cassette tape inside. The sight disturbed him greatly, similar to how a regular person would react upon finding a decapitated head resting in their front yard. It's an odd reaction to have towards a mere cassette tape.
Then I recall something I saw the night I first arrived in Forks. It was a sign I saw out on the highway.
Warning to persons 21 years of age and under: Playing music or possessing any of its paraphernalia within the city of Forks is a violation of the law.
The sight was so ridiculous, I immediately disregarded its message. I suppose now I should have taken it more seriously.
Once the Chief finishes his little speech, he adds an ultimatum. Either I allow him to search my car and "find" what he already knows is inside, or he calls for a search warrant to be issued. Police procedure usually entails placing the subject in the backseat of the patrol car until the warrant arrives. But before that can occur, the officer in charge would need to do a pat down. And if that were to happen to me, it would end very badly. The Police Chief of Forks would discover a bra in the Ziploc bag hiding in my pocket. Word would inevitably spread far and wide that Edward Cullen is not only an arsonist, but also a pervert who collects women's previously-worn lingerie.
I would prefer avoiding that fate.
With clenched teeth, I choose the lesser of two evils. I consent to the search of the car.
The Chief makes a show of it all, taking his time to draw out the suspense. The small group of students nearby watch on nervously. When he reappears with a stack of the music collection which I keep in my car, a collective gasp bursts from the crowd of onlookers. If they think that's shocking, how would they react to the thousand or so cassettes and vinyl records arriving on the moving van tomorrow?
Chief Swan gazes down at the cassettes in his hands and shakes his head, as though he is dismayed by what he found. "Just as I thought. There was a cassette still in your car's tape deck, plus seven more stashed in the glove compartment. Don't you know it's illegal for a person your age to have cassette tapes in this town?"
He marches off with my collection without explaining himself further. I mirror his pace to see what he plans to do with it. My beloved tapes are dropped into the patrol car like they are nothing more than garbage.
"Says who?" I blurt out in response.
Chief Swan appears slightly amused, a smug half-smile pulling at his lips. He informs me that he and the city council are the ones responsible for the absurd law. With the same flair for theatrics as Benito Mussolini making a speech before his nation, the Chief rattles off the horrendous crimes I committed. He speaks as if owning a few cassettes in the privacy of your car is the equivalent of possessing a pound of heroin with the intent to distribute. The man is clearly lacking in brain matter. Perhaps that's why his thoughts are so difficult for me to decipher.
"Breaking the law results in the confiscation of the contraband and a twenty-five dollar fine for each offense," he reveals with evident pleasure written on his face. "And seeing as how some of these cassettes look to be filled with rock music, that means you've earned another fine for playing a genre known for its harmful influence upon our young people. That's an additional one hundred dollars." The Chief pauses, cocking his head to the side. "So...what do you have to say for yourself?"
As Chief Swan awaits my reply, he fondly recalls some of his past search and seizures. I see images of teenagers with tears filling their eyes once they are confronted with the fines they are now responsible for paying. And, evidently, my impending fine is much higher than average. In fact, it's hundreds of dollars more. His smirk tells me he is proud of the catch he made today. Doubtlessly, he will be bragging about the haul down at the police station. But the teenagers watching us nearby give me a clue that he waits for something else to happen before he leaves.
My breakdown.
A few in the crowd picture me throwing myself at the police chief's mercy and lamenting at how impossible it would be to pay the enormous fine. High school students rarely have extra cash lying around. One boy feels quite positive that I will swear to the heavens to never break the music ordinance again if only Chief Swan will let this infraction slide.
How laughable.
I could collect the spare change hiding in my car and find more than enough to cover the fine. If there is one thing in which I don't have, it's money problems. Carlisle manages the family's finances and ensures its continued growth. And I will give up my music collection on the day Ronald Reagan breakdances with Nancy on the White House lawn - something which is highly unlikely, mind you.
Therefore, I am afraid Chief Swan will soon be disappointed. He will need to look elsewhere for someone to grovel at his feet.
"Is that all?" I reply in monotone.
His face melts with hate. The only things playing in his head are profane words and a fantasy of me being carted off to jail in handcuffs. Since the latter is currently an impossible dream considering I haven't done anything serious enough to warrant jail time, he limits himself to shoving the tickets for my fine into my hand and giving a stern warning that he will be "keeping his eye on me from now on". This I could have guessed myself. I'm sure he would love another opportunity to throw the book at me. Though, what he doesn't appear to grasp is that while he watches me, I will be doing the same towards him.
I walk back to my car and slide inside. The school and the Chief's frowning face disappear in my rearview mirror. It was my wish to leave Chief Swan with the impression that our encounter was negligible, nothing to be upset about. I believe I pulled it off rather nicely. Though, on the inside, I am greatly irritated that my precious cassettes are in the his possession.
Of course, they won't be for long.
I park my car at home and run back to Forks on foot. Biding my time, I wait until the sun lowers in the sky before scoping out the police station. Only two officers are on duty, neither one being Chief Swan. A few minutes after my surveillance has commenced, a call comes in. Both of them rush to their cars and respond to a domestic disturbance on the south side of town.
I take my chance and creep inside of the building.
I use my sense of smell to track down my belongings. It's a mix of plastic and a tiny amount of my own, personal scent. I follow the scent trail through the lobby, down a hallway, and into a back office. A sign on the door has Chief Charles Swan written in all caps. I wiggle the door knob but find it locked. Although I have a desire to rip it off its hinges, I refrain. Pulling out a credit card, I easily pop the door open. The room inside is stark white, empty of personality. Nothing hangs on the walls except a couple of newspaper articles about Forks' record low crime rate. The desk in the corner has no photographs or mementos on display. It's completely bare. However, the trash can is not.
My cassettes have been smashed to pieces.
The plastic casings lay broken at the bottom of the trash can, hundreds of feet of magnetic tape pulled out and ripped into pieces. The hammer used to perform the job leans against the wall nearby.
I stand above the trash can with flared nostrils. The damage is too much. There will be no way to repair what he did to my tapes.
I'm out the door a second later.
I follow a new scent trail now - one which smells of watercress, nutmeg, and boundless audacity. What could possess a grown man to destroy something in such a barbaric fashion? My ZZ Top tape - gone. Men At Work - gone. All of the mixtapes I listen to while driving - gone. I can easily replace the first two the next time I'm at my favorite music store. But, the mixtapes I made represent many hours of hard work down the drain. I sorted through dozens of albums and agonized over every detail. The result was a seamless blend of rock, pop, and new wave. And Chief Charles Swan destroyed them all.
I want to understand why.
Traffic is light tonight. I weave my way around buildings and down the streets of Forks without being seen. Chief Swan's scent heads towards a less populated section of town, with both businesses and residences few and far between. The scent trail ends along a quiet street bordering many acres of undeveloped land. Although there is plenty of space available, the street possesses only two modest-sized houses and exactly three heartbeats.
I stay hidden within the trees and scan through the voices I hear in my head. Quickly, I notice something strange. While I detect three heart beats, I only hear two minds in operation. One of them is probably asleep, at a stage in-between dreams, and that's why I'm not picking up much of anything. The second person is awake and in the middle of bathing, his dark skin wet and wrinkled with age. Unwilling to study that particular individual any further considering the activity he is busy with, I switch my concentration over to the third person. They are standing in their living room and hanging up a law enforcement uniform by the door.
Bingo.
Hello, Chief Swan. Fancy running into you so soon after our first delightful encounter.
I prop my back against a tree and begin my work. Chief Swan's brain is a tough nut to crack. Although I can see his point of view and witness whatever mental image occupying his mind perfectly fine, his actual verbal musings are largely absent. This is unfortunate because I am eager to learn how his mind works. The ancient Chinese general Sun Tzu taught that in order to win battles, you must know your enemy as well as yourself. I know absolutely nothing of Chief Swan, so I suppose I'll be doing a lot of studying in the days to come. He may have destroyed eight of my cassettes, but I'll see to it that he won't ever harm anything of mine ever again.
Inside of the house, the Chief shuffles to the kitchen. He pulls out a chair at a tiny table and takes a seat. Out of the corner of his eye, I spot a face I did not expect to see tonight.
It's the girl again. Bella.
My entire body hardens into a block of ice. This was information I did not want to know. Yet, somehow, I have stumbled across it anyway.
Now the monster knows exactly where she lives.
All that stands in the way of her untimely death are two humans living within a hundred feet of the scene. And, possibly, my self-restraint.
"Isabella," Chief Swan mumbles, coaxing back my attention. He's staring down at a dinner of Salisbury steak, watery mashed potatoes, and limp green beans. I don't understand how these humans can eat such filth.
"Hi, Dad," a soft voice replies.
Chief Swan lifts his head a few inches and observes the girl across the table. She has a tiny nose plus a peaches and cream complexion. As he stares, her face alters slightly within his mind. Her brown eyes lighten to a cornflower blue. The girl's hair darkens several shades. However, the two faces appear remarkably similar despite those differences.
Without warning, the Chief glances away and forces out the image from his thoughts. He directs his eyes on the meal before him and his mind on the newspaper in his hands. As he eats, no attempt at talking with the girl is made. Speaking as an eavesdropper two hundred feet away, even I feel uncomfortable by the awkwardness in that room. I've seen funerals which were more lively. I hear only random words within the Chief's head, most of which appear to relate to the article featured in the editorial section of the town's newspaper. Attempting to read Chief Swan's mind is endlessly frustrating.
Like father, like daughter, I suppose.
"Um...Dad?" Bella says after several minutes of silence.
The Chief peeks over the newspaper. The girl's expression is empty, giving no indication concerning what she could be thinking or feeling. She asks her father a simple question - if he will be going to Port Angeles soon. He responds with a yes, but adds that it won't be until three months from now. She goes on to explain that she needs new, warm-weather clothes and would like to go shopping there. He replies that she should just shop at a certain local store instead of going to Port Angeles.
"I don't think they carry much in my size," she responds. For a moment, there's an emotion on her face I wish I could decipher. Her forehead is pinched. A sharp tooth digs into the flesh of her bottom lip. Then, the expression disappears just as rapidly. Her face resumes its former, unreadable appearance.
"Never mind, Dad," she says. "I'll just try to get a ride from someone else."
Chief Swan's mind rips away to an alternate reality. Image after image flashes through his consciousness. A car crumpled like a tin can, its windshield broken with a gaping hole in the middle. Another vehicle damaged but not as severely. Shards of glass littering the road.
And there's blood.
Blood everywhere.
Chief Swan's pulse quickens as the scene unfolds. A woman is sprawled on the grass, her white dress stained with red. I watch him in his mind's eye standing over her body, staring at the woman's bashed in face and twisted neck.
Then something inside of him snaps.
Crashing back to the real world, Chief Swan smashes his fist against the kitchen table. Bella jumps slightly in her seat, but her face remains unmoved.
"Absolutely not," he barks. "You are not traveling on that highway without me - and you're especially not getting into a car with some reckless teenager behind the wheel."
"But-"
"No buts. You know how I feel about teenage drivers. If you need clothes, go to Frannie's. End of discussion." He pauses, his teeth clamped, and adds something else. "And I'd better not hear that you disobeyed me, Isabella. Remember, I know a lot of people around here. If someone sees you traipsing off to Port Angeles, I'll be sure to find out about it. Do you understand me?"
The girl's eyes dart to her dinner and refuse to look upwards again. "Yes."
Chief Swan's thumping heart rate tapers back to normal. He leans back in his chair and gives one head nod. "Good. Now, pass me the ketchup, please."
With that short conversation complete, the two of them don't attempt to speak again. Chief Swan soon wanders into the living room and watches a basketball game on TV with the sound muted. Where the girl has gone or what she could be doing in there is anyone's guess. That's probably for the best. It's too soon for me to explore any curiosity I may have towards her silent mind. As the saying goes, curiosity killed the cat. And, in this scenario, she is the cat.
Suddenly feeling like the despicable creature that I am, I back away from the Swan residence and run home.
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The next morning, I return to school. I keep my focus away from the girl the entire day. It was surprisingly simple thanks to the idiots who insist on following me around everywhere I go. My run-in with Chief Swan and my nonchalant attitude in regards to his authority has been broadcast all around the premises, raising my social standing another level in the eyes of the student body. Various individuals take turns in inviting me to "get to know them better" by asking if I'd like to come to their house after school. I give a firm growl of rejection every time. If the person is especially brainless and continues to pressure me to accept, I bare my teeth a little to remind their putrefied instincts that I am not someone you would want to be alone with for any given time.
Upon the ringing of the final bell, I flee to my car before another soul can seek me out and ask if I'd watch an afternoon special with them on their living room couch. My first thought is to go home and perhaps practice breathing in the girl's scent for a while. Then I recall why that would not be advisable. The moving company and all of our possessions arrive today. At this very moment, the employees are working to remove a plethora of boxes from the van and place them safely inside of the house. That means hours of work on their part. Although Carlisle and I could do it in a few minutes of time if we send the movers away, Esme believes it would be wrong to steal their jobs. She has a point. But, I refuse to spend even a minute more with a human today. I need a break.
Years ago, during our stay in Hoquiam, I was out hunting and came upon an interesting place. Not too far outside of Forks, there lay a clearing - a meadow so to speak - which had captivated my attention. It was peaceful, a place to escape from the chaos every so often. An urge to see if it still exists sweeps over me. Without needing to debate matters any further, I turn the car around and head east.
I soon find myself on a deserted, dirt road. After driving a short distance, I park the car and move around to the trunk. My portable tape player, a small case of tapes, and a few other personal items are still in there, having made the move to Forks with me but not yet to my bedroom. It's a good thing, too. Now while I work on acclimating myself to the girl's delicious scent, the event will have a musical accompaniment. At least I will have some form of comfort while I'm being driven insane by thirst.
I grab the tape player and cassettes before shooting off into the forest. The run doesn't take long, ten or eleven seconds at most. I step out of the tree line and take in the scenery. The general dimensions of the meadow are roughly the same as I remember. Tall, emerald green sways in the breeze, the air fresh and crisp. And thanks to the coming of spring, new buds sprout from both trees and plants alike.
I can scarcely believe it. The meadow is largely unchanged, as though it has been frozen in time during all those years I was away.
There is only one noticeable difference to the place. In the exact middle of the clearing stands a Pacific dogwood. It's relatively young for a tree, thirty to forty years old at most. And it doesn't stand nearly as tall and majestic as some of the cedars and firs bordering the meadow. But, there's a subtle dignity about it that I appreciate. The leaves are oval and delicate, the color a lovely shade of glossy green. In another month or so, there will be hundreds of white blossoms hanging from its limbs. It's my opinion that this species of tree is the most beautiful one on the Olympic Peninsula. I'm drawn to it like a bee to its hive. I decide that the dogwood will make pleasant company today.
As my back leans against the smooth trunk, I press the play button on my tape player. Music fills the meadow. I relax and breathe out a sigh, content with the knowledge that Chief Swan would likely burst a blood vessel if he could see that he missed quite a few of my cassettes yesterday during the search of my car. It isn't my fault that he didn't think to check the trunk.
Aware that I cannot put off the task any longer, my hand slips into my pocket and pulls out the Ziploc bag. I open it, expecting to be hit by the scent like a wrecking ball striking a building. Instead, my brow furrows.
It smells weaker than I remember.
I suppose the girl's scent is slowly dissipating from the bra. Eventually, there will be nothing left. Either the girl will need to wear the bra again in order to reabsorb her scent, or Esme will have to break into her house and trade it for another item of clothing. Both scenarios are riddled with problems - especially that second one. Knowing Esme, she would steal a pair of the girl's panties for me to sniff and not see anything wrong with it. I should probably have a long talk with her first in order to avoid that issue.
I place the bag on my lap, close my eyes, and allow the scent to surround me. My throat dries up. There's a strong discomfort, but it's not quite as painful as it was on Monday, or even the day before. Nevertheless, I concentrate on the song currently playing instead of focusing on the scent. It's safer that way.
Dark in the city, night is a wire
Steam in the subway, earth is afire
Do do do do, do do do, do do do, dodo dodo
My grip on the bag loosens. I've been a fan of Duran Duran since I first heard of them four years ago. Their songs are new wave, featuring synthesizers and a mixture of conventional instruments - electric guitars and keyboards primarily. The drums in this song seem particularly noticeable today, thumping and pounding like a racing heartbeat. It serves to further my fascination.
Woman you want me, give me a sign
And catch my breathing even closer behind
Do do do do, do do do, do do do, dodo dodo
The winds suddenly sweep in from the opposite direction, blowing my hair sideways. The freesia in the air worsens, as though the meadow has decided to send up thousands of blossoms from its soil to inflict additional pain upon me. Fire licks down my throat, searing my insides with incredible thirst. My eyelids flap open wide from the onslaught.
And that's when I see the girl.
Bella stands at the border between the meadow and the dark forest, her lips parted slightly. Her limbs remain motionless at her sides as she stares in my direction. Now that my mind is no longer stubbornly engrossed with the music hovering in the air, I realize it's her heart that I heard pounding in the background - as though it was attempting to hide its beats within the musical notes. Now all I have to concentrate on is the maddening aroma filling my nostrils.
In touch with the ground
I'm on the hunt, I'm after you
Smell like I sound
I'm lost in the crowd
And I'm hungry like the wolf
A primal growl threatens to reverberate deep within my chest.
What an unfortunate song to be playing right now...
I jump up from the ground, the monster's sights centered on the delicate blue vein of her neck. Her skin looks so thin by the light of day. Even if I were human, it wouldn't take much to puncture it. My teeth could cut into her flesh and easily extract the sweet nectar her freesia scent has been hinting at for these last few days.
Straddle the line, in discord and rhyme
I'm on the hunt, I'm after you
Mouth is alive, with juices like wine
And I'm hungry like the wolf
"Uh, excuse me," a feminine voice croaks. Bella clears her throat, a faint look of unease shining within her eyes. Then, her face takes on another quality. Her head tilts up higher than before, an air of confidence exuding from her. "Sorry to disturb you, but I came here to read today. Do you mind if I sit here for a while? I won't bother you."
The monster smiles within. Before I can warn her to leave while she still can, the monster silently signals its consent to her request. It makes hunting so much simpler when your prey practically hands herself over to you.
Bella steps forward and finds a spot in the grass to sit. She pulls out a battered book from her bag, the same one that I so badly wished to know the title of on Monday. I have no interest in books at the moment. I remain standing under the tree thirty feet away, fighting a battle inside of me all the while. This girl has no idea what she has done. For her safety, I have tried to maintain my distance. Yet, here she is circumventing my plans and practically asking that I gorge myself on her blood. And for what? So she may read a book in a meadow? What's wrong with this girl? Can't she sense the danger she's in?
I drop to the ground and allow my fingers to sink into the earth. No. I can't blame her. It isn't her fault she happened upon the scene unannounced, to a place far away from prying eyes. I could feed from her, hide her body, and no one would ever know what became of her. But I would know. I can't allow that to happen to either one of us. I loathe myself enough already.
I block my airway and remind myself not to breathe anything else in. I swallow back the molten venom scalding my throat. It's not a completely hopeless situation, I tell myself. If I can hold my breath while in the same room with the girl, surely I can do the same here. Everything will be fine as long as I keep the monster on a short leash.
Mind over matter.
My fingers slide out of the ground and come to rest upon my lap. At the same time, they seek out what they had been holding before the girl showed up and all hell broke loose. My back stiffens in alarm when I can't locate it.
The plastic bag. It's gone. It must have flown off my lap when I jumped up into a standing position.
I glance around to see where it could have went. I spot the Ziploc bag a stone's throw away, the wind apparently having blown it over there during my emotional upheaval. However, my relief at finding it is fleeting. I realize the bag is unzipped.
And empty.
A fear besides unintentionally killing the girl rushes through me. The white cotton bra I've been sniffing these last three days is missing. More upsetting than that, its owner sits only two dozen feet away. She also just so happens to be the flesh and blood of my new mortal enemy. I'm sure Chief Swan will be thrilled to hear that the Cullen boy he hates stole one of his daughter's underthings. He'd probably arrest me for burglary in addition to various sex crimes. Then, I would be required to sit in the town's pitiful excuse of a jail cell and pretend I can't escape, just so the humans would never guess that I posses supernatural strength.
No thank you. I'd rather avoid that, please.
Half frantic, I scan the area for signs of the bra. I look on the ground under my feet and the surrounding grass. I see nothing until I happen to glance up.
And there it is, hanging down from a branch of the dogwood tree. The white bra flaps in the breeze, like it's waving for someone's attention.
My eyes dart over to check on the girl. Her nose is deep inside of her book, unaware of what dangles above my head. Taking a risk, I leap up at a speed faster than sound. I quickly untangle the bra from the branch and shove it deep into my pocket. With the worst part out of the way, I look to ensure the girl didn't see anything.
She did not.
I lean my head against the dogwood and slam my eyelids shut. That was close. I do believe the next time I see Alice I am going to strangle her. Since she gave Esme the idea of stealing an item of clothing from the girl's house in the first place, Alice could have at least instructed Esme not to take anything potentially problematic for me.
Minutes pass. The only sound in the meadow is the music from my tape player. And, during all this time, the girl hasn't said a word. In more ways than one, she's as silent as the forest surrounding us. It's strange being in the same area as someone else and not hear a peep from their mind. If not for her heartbeat, I would never know she was here.
Although she mostly reads, I notice her peeking up every so often. I pretend to not notice and keep my face pointed downward. Instead of thinking of anything dangerous that could result in the monster returning, I spend my mental energies on piercing her mind. I am unsuccessful.
On the tape player, Culture Club asks, "Do you really want to hurt me?" when I finally hear something other than the leaves of the trees blowing in the wind. I lift my face to look across the meadow. Bella closes her book, rises on her feet, and brushes a few blades of grass off of her pants. Her eyes meet mine for a short time. I squint slightly, willing myself to try harder and read what lies behind them. Of course, it does no good. Her mind is like a concrete wall.
She blinks, instantly breaking the moment. After a brief head nod in my direction, she turns on her heels and heads towards the forest. Soon, she finds a small trail and vanishes within the trees.
I wait until her heart can no longer be heard. Then I release my pent-up breath. The muted fragrance of freesia continues to haunt the meadow, as well as my thoughts, deep into the night.
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The next day, I walk into school assuming the girl has notified everyone within hearing distance of our encounter from the day before. After all, that sort of information would elevate her popularity greatly judging by what I have learned so far at this hellhole. I spend all day dreading the moment when hordes of idiots with death wishes march up to me and demand that I do the same activity with them.
But, that never happens. More surprising than that, I never hear a word about it.
Near the end of the day, I break my rule and search for the girl within the other students' minds. No one speaks to her, and she speaks to no one except the teacher. When the final bell rings, students wish each other a nice weekend and speak of their plans. She remains quiet and disappears into the hallway. No one takes note of her departure.
The sun comes out Saturday, driving the vampires of Forks away from human eyes. When the weather forecast predicts cloudless skies until Tuesday, I decide to take a little trip out of town. For two days, I explore Seattle by the cover of darkness and relax in my hotel room during the light of day. I beef up my already large music collection and purchase replacements for the two tapes Chief Swan destroyed. The sun once again hides behind the clouds beginning at noon on Monday. I pack my new purchases in my car and make the trek back home.
As soon as I cross into the Forks city limits, I look for the Chief's current location. I'm positive he plans to stop me periodically in order to do more search and seizures. I wouldn't put it past him to try to lay a trap just for me. He'd be tickled pink to confiscate the cassettes I just bought over the weekend. The fines for that traffic stop alone would likely be enough to cover his salary for the entire month. So, I flick from mind to mind within the town, searching for his whereabouts.
But Mom! I only need the car for like thirty minutes tops. I swear I'll bring it back before the evening news comes on...
That'll be ten dollars and twenty-one cents, sir. Will you be paying with cash or check...
Perfect...
This last thought momentarily gives me pause. Through this person's perspective, I see a human face a short distance away. The bottom lip is plumper than the top. The cheeks are large and ruddy, the cool night pooling blood underneath the thin membrane of skin. I'm about to dart my concentration elsewhere when thought after thought bombards me. I no longer concern myself over where Chief Swan might be. Instead, the familiar burn of my throat returns. I can't hold back the animal growl which immediately fills the car. Nor can I keep myself from jerking the steering wheel hard to the left, causing the car to do a complete U-turn in the middle of the road. I stomp on the accelerator, the tires squealing in protest.
Human beings really shouldn't travel alone at this time of night.
Especially when there's a monster like me in Forks.
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A/N-
Songs used in this chapter:
Hungry Like The Wolf by Duran Duran. I love '80s music videos. This song's video is a charmingly weird mixture of the movies Raiders Of The Lost Ark with a small dose of Apocalypse Now.
Do You Really Want To Hurt Me by Culture Club.
Next Chapter- Sorry, but I can't say much about the next chapter without giving anything away. So, how about telling me what YOU think will happen instead. Or, you can scream at me for leaving you with a cliffhanger. Whatever works for you is fine.
Thanks for reading! :-)